Can't Help It
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Cuddy agrees to work with the DA to send House back to jail.
1. Chapter 1

Can't Help It

**My muse has been a stranger to me lately but for some reason, I got this silly soap opera plot stuck in my head and couldn't get rid of it. I actualy considered writing this fic under an alias (yes, that would be an alias for my alias). But then I decided: What the hell! It's fan fic, not a doctoral thesis. So join me in basking in the cheesiness of this "Cuddy wears a wire" fic. – atd**

Cuddy didn't even think twice when she looked down at her phone and saw it was Wilson.

They'd stayed in touch since she'd moved to Long Island and started her job at Westchester General. Not weekly phone calls, or even monthly ones, but enough to make James Wilson's name popping up on her cell at 4 o' clock on a Tuesday seem perfectly ordinary.

"Hey," she said, putting her feet up on her desk, preparing for a long conversation about the latest PPTH gossip, or the newest woman Wilson was dating.

"He's out," Wilson blurted excitedly into the phone.

"Who's out?" she said.

"House," he said, more calmly this time. "They released him from prison. I thought you'd want to know."

She put her feet down and sat up straight in her chair.

"That's crazy," she said. "It's only been 18 months. He was sentenced to five years."

"With the possibility of parole with good behavior," Wilson reminded her.

"Don't tell me he behaved himself. This is Greg House we're talking about."

She could almost hear his conciliatory shrug on the other end of the phone.

"No, actually he was released to the custody of the hospital. Foreman needed help with a vexing case."

"You're joking," Cuddy said.

"No. It's true."

"So where is he now?"

"Ummm, right down the hallway, consulting with his team."

"His _team_?"

Wilson inhaled a bit.

"Yes, uh. . .he has a new team. Well, some of his old team, too."

"He's head of diagnostics again?"

"Kind of. . ."

Cuddy was so enraged, she split the pencil she was holding in two.

"So let me get this straight: He rams his car into my house, forces me out of job and home, gives my now 4 year old daughter nightmares for a year—and he gets 18 months of prison and his old life back? Does that seem fair to you?"

"None of this fair, Cuddy," Wilson said, apologetically.

"This is bullshit," she said. "And I suppose you guys are best friends again."

Wilson sighed.

"He needs someone. He's all alone."

"I was all alone. I was fucking all alone when he ruined my life."

"I know, Cuddy. And I tried to be there for you, too."

She swallowed a bit. She was getting angry at the wrong guy.

"You were, Wilson. I know how it is with you and House. You just can't help yourself."

"There was a time when you couldn't either," he pointed out.

"Thankfully, those days are long behind me," she said.

######

"How are you, Dr. Cuddy?" DA Eric Oldham said, trying not to stare too brazenly at the beautiful woman sitting across from him in his office.

"I'm pissed, as you well know," Cuddy said.

He looked down at some file on his desk, as if it was to blame for this predicament.

"I know."

"Just explain to me how it is that a man who could've killed me—who could've killed my _daughter_—is out on parole."

"He told the parole board that he knew for a fact your daughter wasn't home."

Cuddy's stared at him.

"How on earth would he know that for a fact?"

Oldham put on his reading glasses and looked back down at the file.

"He said, uh, 'She always went to her grandmother's house on Fridays.'"

"That's a lie!" Cuddy said, flabbergasted.

The DA looked up at her from under his glasses.

"She wasn't at your mother's house?"

"No, she was," Cuddy said. "Thank God. But it wasn't a weekly thing. Occasional at best."

The DA shrugged.

"He says he knew."

"And that was good enough?"

"The parole board found him credible."

"This is outrageous!" Cuddy said.

Oldham gave a sympathetic nod of his head.

"You're not the only one who thinks Dr. House should still be behind bars, you know."

She squinted at him.

"I'm not?"

"No, you have an ally. Somebody who feels quite strongly that Gregory House is an unrepentant criminal. In fact, I believe you know him."

"I do?"

He pushed the intercom button on his phone.

"Sally, let him in."

The door opened and a hulking, beady-eyed man with a physical presence that seemed to take over the room stepped in. Cuddy's mouth dropped open.

"Tritter," she said out loud.

"Dr. Cuddy," he said, with a tiny smirk.

"Have a seat Detective Tritter," Oldham said, gesturing to the chair next to Cuddy.

Tritter folded himself into the chair next to Cuddy. As usual, he looked like he was contemplating some deliciously malicious secret.

"I see we finally see eye-to-eye on Dr. House," he said to Cuddy. "Took you a while. I was surprised that a woman as intelligent and sophisticated as you would get involved with a reprobate like him to begin with."

"My personal life is none of your—"

"But I get it, I suppose," Tritter interrupted, musingly. "All women want to save the tiger with the thorn in its paw. Until they come to realize that the tiger is a wild and vicious creature that cannot be tamed."

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

She felt uncomfortable being somehow aligned with this brute of a man. But they were, for now at least, on the same side.

"Detective Tritter shares your opinion that Dr. House is a threat to society," Oldham said.

Then he added, to Tritter: "She says House lied about the little girl. That he had no way of knowing she wasn't home that night."

"So he lied to the parole board," Tritter said, shaking his leg antsily. After smoking again for a couple of years, he was back to noisily chewing his nicotine gum. "That's an imprisonable offense." He turned to Cuddy: "Can you prove it?"

"How am I supposed to prove it?" she said.

"Get him to confess to you. Wear a wire."

"Dr. House and I aren't speaking anymore," Cuddy said.

"So?" Tritter said, chomping on his gum. "Speak to him."

"He doesn't want to speak to me, I'm sure."

Tritter smirked at her.

"Of course he does. He'd cream in his pants if you showed him even the tiniest bit of kindness—excuse my French."

"I strongly doubt. . ."

"You're the best thing that ever happened to that miserable son of a bitch," Tritter said, laughing derisively. "Trust me, he'll talk to you."

Cuddy looked down.

"So would that work?" she said, quietly. "If I got him to confess that he had no idea whether Rachel was home or not. . . they'd put him back in prison?"

Oldham nodded.

"If he's found to have willfully lied to the parole board. . .yes, he could go back to prison."

"For how long?"

"Hard to say. Up to a year. Maybe more."

Cuddy felt her hands shaking a bit. She folded them in her lap.

"I don't know. . .I've never done something like this," she said.

"Dr. Cuddy, you came to me," Oldham said. "I'm just trying to help you here."

"Can I think about it?" she said, pursing her lips.

"Take all the time you need," Oldham said.

"You know what galls me?" Tritter said, as if talking to himself. "House has no sense of the consequences of his actions. He almost kills Dr. Cuddy and her innocent little girl and look at him now. Sitting pretty as the prestigious head of diagnostics, with no regard for the lives he ruined along the way. That guy always wins."

Cuddy stared at him, processing his words.

"I'll do it," she said to Oldham.

######

Gregory House was barking at his team—for a change.

Park had just suggested that they remove the patient's spleen—although the diagnosis still wasn't confirmed.

"Good idea!" House said, in mock cheer. "Let's remove all his non-vital organs. We can start with spleen and then make our way to the gallbladder, the testicles. Maybe we can blind him! Can anyone get serious here and give me an actual suggestion?"

But his team was silent. In fact, they weren't even looking at him. They were looking dumbly at the door. Taub and Chase, in particular, looked stunned.

"What?" House growled, turning to the door. And then he turned white.

Now, instead of staring at Dr. Cuddy, his team was all staring at him. They had never seen him lose his cool like this.

"Either I'm hallucinating or you're in the wrong hospital," House finally managed to choke out.

"You're not hallucinating," Cuddy said. "I'm in town visiting my mother. I thought I'd stop by and visit my old stomping grounds."

"Are you armed?" he said, only half-joking. "Because I've been shot in this office before and it hurt."

"They made me check my weapon at the door," she cracked.

Chase stood up, awkwardly, and walked up to her.

"It's incredibly good to see you, Dr. Cuddy," he said, and gave her a stiff hug.

Taub, seeing this gesture, popped up, too. He went to hug her but then thought better of it.

"Hi," he said, giving a half wave. "You look well."

"So do you," Cuddy said.

She turned to the two women sitting at the table: A raven haired beauty (why was she not surprised?) and a mousy androgynous Asian girl with a bowl cut (okay, that surprised her a little.)

"I'm Dr. Cuddy, I used to be the Dean of Medicine here."

"Very nice to meet you," the brunette said.

"Hi," the Asian girl said, with a wave even more diffident than Taub's.

"What are you doing here, Cuddy?" House said, folding his arms across his chest.

"I told you," Cuddy said. "I came to visit the hospital. I'm welcome here. _I_ wasn't the one who left in disgrace."

"I meant, what are you doing in my office?" House said, ignoring her provocation.

Cuddy hesitated.

"I needed to see you," she said. "To see if it was true that you got everything you wanted—again. To see if you won."

"Oh yeah, I'm the big winner," House said, sarcastically.

"And I wanted to see if prison. . .changed you."

"And?" House said.

She looked him up and down.

"You've tucked in your shirt," she said, dryly.

"So I have," House said.

"Besides that, absolutely nothing has changed."

Then she turned to the team.

"Nice to see you all," she said. And she left.

This was calculated on her part. If she seemed too forgiving, House would never buy it. You always had to be a few steps ahead of him. On the other hand, if he didn't follow her, try to make contact, this whole exercise—the tiny wire taped under bra—was for nothing.

House watched her as she made her way down the hall.

His team continued to stare at him like he was an exotic animal behind glass in a zoo.

"What are you still doing here?" House said, finally noticing them.

"Waiting for you to tell us what to do," Park said.

"Go, uh, do that thing," House said distractedly, his eyes still trained on Cuddy, who had stopped to chat with one of the doctors in the hall.

"Do what thing?" Taub said.

"That thing we talked about," House said. "With the spleen."

And he limped into the hall.

"What the hell was that?" Adams said.

"That was Dr. Cuddy," Chase said.

"I got that far. What's her deal with House? He looked like he had just seen a ghost."

"They dated," Chase said. "And, uh, broke up."

"That must've been one hell of a breakup," Park said.

But Adams finally got it: "She's the one," she said. "She's the reason he went to prison."

Taub and Chase nodded wordlessly.

"No wonder he looked like that," Park said.

"The real question," Adams said. "Is why is she speaking to him at all?"  
######

"Cuddy!" he yelled, as she approached the elevator. He was limping quickly, slightly out of breath. "Wait!"

She smiled to herself. Tritter was right. House couldn't stay away.

She stopped, feigned an annoyed look.

"What?" she said.

"So that's it?" he said.

"Is what it?"

"You just wanted to see me? Make sure I was the same guy? No yelling? No throwing things? No telling me that I'm pond scum?"

"I guess that's it."

He looked at her, searchingly.

Finally, he said, "How are you?" His voice was gentle.

"I'm good."

"Wilson tells me you're living on Long Island? VP of admin at Westchester General?" A strained attempt at small talk.

"That's right."

"That's good," he said, nodding. "Congrats."

"I had a better job here," she said.

He looked at his feet.

"How long are you in town?"

"Two weeks," she said.

He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Can I. . .see you?" he asked.

"You're seeing me right now," she said.

"I meant. . . alone. So we can talk. So I can muddle through some highly inadequate and appallingly late attempt at an apology. For drinks. Or dinner."

"Not a good idea," she said, still playing the long game.

"Coffee then," he said. "In the clear light of day. No pressure. I can tell you about how often I got the crap beaten out of me in prison. You'll love it."

He gave her a tiny smile. It was a smile that, at one time, she couldn't resist. Right now, she found it smug and presumptuous.

"Okay," she said, suppressing the urge to touch her chest, where the wire was taped. "Coffee."

######


	2. Chapter 2

He was early, which was strange in and of itself.

He was sitting in the corner, drumming his fingers against the table nervously. He stood quickly when he saw her, almost knocking over two cups of coffee in the process.

"Thanks for seeing me, Cuddy," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He was wearing jeans and a pink shirt, untucked.

It was odd to see him like this—anxious, fumbling, unsure of himself.

"I don't have long," she said, sliding in across from him.

"Oh, me neither," he joked. "I've got plans. Big, big plans."

She didn't smile.

He slid one of the coffees across the table to her. "I got you your usual," he said. "Skim latte. Extra foam. No sugar."

"Thanks," she said.

He shook some sugar into his own coffee, stirred it, and took a sip.

"_Soooo_," he said. "Where to begin?"

She shrugged a shoulder.

"You go first," she said.

"How's Rachel?"

"She's fine."

"_Fine_? Could you perhaps be even more vague? C'mon, Cuddy. Who are her friends? What's her favorite video game? Does she still think Crocs are the height of fashion? Can I see a picture?"

"She's fine," Cuddy repeated, tersely.

He got it, bowed his head.

"Okay, what _can_ we talk about then?" he said.

"You said you wanted to talk to me and I'm here," Cuddy said. "So go ahead, spill your guts."

"It's so easy to open up when you create such a nurturing environment for confession," he muttered.

"Then I'll leave," she said, standing up.

She was still following the script. And, thankfully, so was he—he just didn't know it.

"No!" he said, the slightest bit of desperation creeping into his voice. "Stay. . . I'm sorry. I'm screwing this up, just like I screw everything up. Please. Sit back down. . .stay."

He looked at her beseechingly.

She sat.

"You know I was out of my mind on drugs that day, right?" he said softly, scratching his head. "I didn't know what I was doing. That's no excuse. But it's true. I was. . . crazed. I snapped."

"You could've killed people," she said.

She wanted to add: "Did you know Rachel was in the house?"—but decided it was too forced. Let him talk some more. Let him tie his own noose.

"I hate myself," he said. "You know that, right?"

"You've always hated yourself."

"It used to be more of a love/hate relationship," he said, with a tiny smile. "Now it's more hate/hate. But this is helping. . ."

"What is?"

"Seeing you. Talking to you. I'm just so grateful that . . ."

"This is nothing," Cuddy said. "It's coffee."

"It's more than I deserve."

They looked at each other.

Then she took a sip of her latte.

"So," she said. "Tell me about jail. Was it horrible?" She hoped she didn't sound too eager.

"Yes," he said, plainly. "Turns out the men in there are not such nice guys. Criminals, even."

He looked for a smile, an acknowledgement of the joke, anything. She remained stony-faced.

"For the most part, I stuck to myself," he continued, chewing on his coffee stirrer. "Everyone has a job. Mostly manual labor, which, of course, we gimps aren't very good at. So they put me in the laundry room. You haven't lived til you've cleaned the soiled shorts of a 350 pound Samoan gang member. It was. . .humbling."

"Go on," she said.

"Like I said, I stuck to myself. I had one friend. This guy Walter. We played chess. But he was so dumb I had to forfeit my queen at the beginning of every game just to give him a fighting chance."

Then he looked at Cuddy: "Giving up my queen seemed somehow appropriate."

_Give me a break_, Cuddy thought. _He's not going to charm me that easily._

"You said you got beat up?"

"All the time," House said. "The thing is, Neo Nazis don't have a finely tuned appreciation for sarcasm. Make a note of that. I lost a tooth, cracked a rib, got a couple of concussions. One time, they beat me with my own cane. That was fun."

She involuntarily cringed at the thought of House being beaten with his own cane.

He looked at her sincerely: "I welcomed the pain, Cuddy. Really I did."

"So what else?" she said.

"That new doctor on my team?" House said. "Not Harry Potter, the other one. She used to work in the prison clinic. A debutante do-gooder, helping the little people. I rescued her from her intellectual purgatory."

"You're a real fucking hero," Cuddy said.

"I didn't mean it that way," House said.

"I don't like hearing about your great new team," she said. "Is that so hard for you to understand? I'm extremely resentful of the fact that I had to completely uproot my life and you still have everything, House. Are you even capable of seeing how unfair that is?"

"But I don't have everything. . ." he muttered.

"You have your team. Your job. Your prestige. Your best friend."

"But I don't have you," he said.

"You didn't have me to begin with—remember? We had broken up. We were moving on."

"_You_ were moving on," House said.

"And you couldn't handle that."

"Apparently not."

They were quiet.

"What about now?" she said, mostly because curiosity had gotten the best of her. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"Like, romantically?" he said, almost laughing at the thought.

"Yes."

"Not unless you count that one time I dropped the soap in prison."

He looked up—again she didn't seem to appreciate his joke.

"No, I'm not seeing anyone," he said. "Are. . . you?"

"None of your business."

"I know," he said. "You're right. Your life is your business. I have no right to ask."

She looked at her watch.

"Unfortunately, House, I really do need to go."

"No!" he said. "We're not done yet. There's so much more I want to say."

She stood up, looked at him, allowing her face to soften, to give him false hope.

"Maybe we can have dinner one night later this week?" she said.

He was so eager he practically jumped out of his chair.

"I'd love that. Name the night. Name the place. Name the time. I'll be there."

"I'll call you," she said.

And she walked out of the coffee shop, feeling his eyes burning through the back of her neck.

#####

Cuddy had never expected to feel guilty.

Scared, maybe. Angry, for sure. Nervous about screwing up the tape. But not guilty.

It was so easy to demonize House from afar after all the unforgivable things he had done.

But to see him sitting across from her at the coffee shop, looking so vulnerable, so hopeful, so . . ._in love_ with her (_still_, she realized. . .probably always)—she couldn't help but to feel a surprising pang of guilt. She was entrapping a man she had once loved.

"You still with me?"

She looked up.

She was having lunch at a seedy little diner in Trenton with Tritter. He had been blathering on about New Jersey wire laws—or something.

He was wolfing down a bacon cheeseburger. She was picking at a cobb salad.

This was the other reason she felt guilty—because she was aligning herself with Tritter, a bully, a menace, a man she had once loathed.

"I'm with you," she said.

"I listened to the tape," he said. "You did great." Then he smiled. "What did I tell you? Like taking candy from a baby. You've got him eating out of the palm of your hand."

She shrugged.

His smile turned malicious, as it tended to do.

"I can't wait til he finds out you're faking it." he said. "That you'd rather stab yourself in the eye with hot pokers than spend another second with him. It's going to crush him." He laughed. "I wish I could be there to witness that moment."

"You really hate him," Cuddy said.

"Almost as much as you do, sweetheart," he said, with a smirk. Then he added: "I do have one question, though. You had him—when he was talking about the crash. That was your opening. Why didn't you ask him about Rachel then? Why didn't you ask whether he knew Rachel was in the house?"

"I. . . didn't want it to seem too rehearsed," she said hastily. "Too much like an interrogation."

After coffee with House, she had asked herself the same question. A fleeting thought had crossed her mind—maybe she wasn't ready to be done with her undercover work yet. Maybe she actually _wanted_ to spend more time with him.

"Probably wise," Tritter said, polishing off the last bite of his burger and nodding. "Although, he'd confess to anything to spend more time with you. He'd confess to the Kennedy assassination if it meant you'd give him the time of day."

"I'm not trying to force a false confession," Cuddy said, testily. "I just want the truth."

"Of course," Tritter said. "The truth."

He pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and began picking at his teeth.

"You know, " he said, musingly, "the man is guilty of many crimes. Maybe you can get him to confess to forging prescriptions, performing illegal medical procedures—I dunno—jaywalking. We could really throw the book at him."

"I'm just doing this for one reason," Cuddy said. "To get justice for my daughter. That's it. That's why I'm wearing the wire."

"You have principles," he said. "I like that about you."

Cuddy speared a cherry tomato off her plate with her fork, said nothing.

"I will say this: Dr. House and I do have one thing in common," Tritter said. His voice had grown curiously silky.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Our admiration for you."

And he gave her something of a leer.

"Thank you," she said, in a tone that suggested she wasn't interested. But Tritter was too arrogant to pick up on it.

"I've always thought you were a beautiful, classy lady," he said, looking her up and down.

"Thank you," she repeated, coldly.

He reached across the table, took her hand, which she immediately yanked away.

Again, he didn't seem to notice, or care.

"Maybe when this is all done, you and I can have dinner. There's this great little Italian place that. . ."

"Not interested," Cuddy said quickly.

"No?" he said, raising his eyebrow. "Why not?"

She hadn't felt the slightest bit threatened in the presence of the man who ran his car through her dining room. Suddenly, right now, with this cop, she felt a bit on edge.

"I need a reason not to be interested?" she said, cautiously.

"I just think maybe your internal compass needs a bit of recalibration," he said. "You date a low-life like House, but won't give an honorable man like me a shot."

_Gregory House is worth a hundred of you_, she thought, but didn't say. Then she castigated herself for even feeling that way.

"Let's just keep this professional," she said.

Tritter nodded.

"Probably wise," he said, adding with a grin: "For now."

He gestured to the waitress for the check.

"So what's next?" he said.

"House and I are having dinner on Friday night," Cuddy said.

"Perfect," he said. "He probably thinks he's going to get laid—excuse my French."

Then he added: "But be careful. If you get any sense that he's onto you, get the hell out of there. He can be a very dangerous man, as we both know."

"Yeah," Cuddy said, biting her lip. "Dangerous."  
######

She had somehow managed to convince Wilson to go for a run with her.

He was barely able to keep up. He was huffing and puffing.

"You really need to work out more, Wilson," she admonished.

"What do you think I'm doing now?" he said, panting.

Then he held up his hand.

"Wait," he said. "I need a moment." He bent over, put his hands on his knees, caught his breath.

Cuddy jogged in place, watching him.

He looked up.

"So?" he said.

"So what?" she said.

"When were you planning on getting around to telling me about House," he said.

"Of course," Cuddy said. "The real reason you agreed to go on this run."

"He told me he's having dinner with you on Friday," Wilson said.

"That's true," Cuddy admitted. A part of her wanted to tell Wilson about the wire, but she couldn't. For one thing, he was liable to tell House. Also, he would probably judge her harshly.

"What happened to, 'he's a horrible man who deserves a life of misery?'" he said, with a knowing smirk.

"Rest time is over, Wilson," she said, and began to sprint away.

With an exasperated sigh, he followed her.

"If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine," he said, managing to keep astride. "But just know you've made House very happy."

"He told you that?" she said, skeptically.

"Not in so many words," Wilson said. "But it's all over his face. It's like a giant weight is off his shoulders. I actually heard him _whistling_ the other day."

"Yes," Cuddy said. "Anytime House whistles it's clearly because of me."

"That's actually true," Wilson said, side-stepping a dead squirrel on the path. "Gross," he said.

"So what made you change your mind about him?" he said.

"I haven't changed my mind," Cuddy said. "I'm just letting him say his piece."

"Good for you," Wilson said. "Underneath all that sarcasm and bluster, he's a good man, Cuddy. You've always known that."

"Have I?" she said.

"Yes, you have. And you also know that he never stopped loving you and Rachel."

"He sure has a funny way of showing it," she said.

And she sprinted ahead, leaving James Wilson in her dust.

#####

House had combed his hair. He was wearing a freshly pressed short, untucked again, as he had sensed some disapproval on her part of his new clothing routine. And he was wearing the aftershave she had bought him a few Christmases ago.

"You see, aftershave is for men who _shave_," he had teased, when she gave him the gift.

"I like the way it smells," she retorted.

"It makes me smell like a club promoter on the Jersey Shore," he said.

"Are you going to _refuse_ to wear the gift I bought you?" she said, pretending to pout.

"Of course not," he had said, slapping the aftershave on his face. "Just not in public."

And she had playfully hit him, just as he pulled her in close for a kiss.

Now, when he stood up, she could smell the spicy, musky scent wafting off him. She thought about the moment, tonight, when he was getting dressed, when he chose to put on the aftershave—imagined him standing in his bathroom, with the bottle in his hands, remembering that night.

She was unexpectedly touched.

He took her in—white blouse, red pencil skirt, black stiletto pumps, her hair hanging in loose waves down to her shoulders. (Recording device fastened with surgical tape to her right breast.)

"I can't get over how beautiful you look," he said, sitting back down.

She blinked at him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was not me hitting on you. That was just a statement of fact."

"You don't have to apologize for thinking I look beautiful," she said.

"Good," he said. "Because if I did, I'd be apologizing all the time."

She tried to suppress a smile.

They ordered dinner and a bottle of wine—and managed some successful small talk.

He was barely eating, though, kept swirling his mashed potatoes with his fork, like a child.

Finally, he said:

"I've been thinking about our conversation the other day."

"Oh yeah?" Cuddy said.

"Yeah. And I decided something: If my continued employment at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital makes you upset, I'll quit."

He looked at her unblinkingly.

"That's not necessary, House," she said.

"It is necessary, if it gives you any sort of peace of mind," he said.

"My peace of mind went out the door the day you drove your car into my house," she said.

He closed his eyes.

"Tell me what to do here, Cuddy," he said. "Tell me what to do to make things better for you."

"I'm not sure there is anything you can do," she said.

He looked down at his plate, staring at it, still not eating.

"I used to have nightmares," he said finally.

_So did Rachel_, Cuddy thought.

"When I first got to prison, I had these horrible nightmares. I would wake up screaming. I dreamt that I had hurt you. That I had hurt Rachel."

"But Rachel wasn't home," Cuddy said. "You couldn't have hurt her."

"Thank God," House said.

Cuddy tried to keep her face still.

"Did you know that Rachel was at my mother's?" she said.

"Cuddy, I told you. I was stoned out of my skull that night. I didn't know my own first name. . ."

She had what she needed. She could get up from the table and leave right now. But she didn't.

"I thought about offing myself," he said quietly. "More than once, actually. It wouldn't have been that hard. I told you, I worked laundry detail. I could've hung myself with bed sheets."

"Jesus House."

The specificity of that detail sent a chill down her spine.

"But I didn't," he said, giving a weak smile.

"Why not?" she said.

"Because it's the coward's way out."

"You are many things, Gregory House. A coward is not one of them."

"Of course I'm a coward," he said. "Look at me. Working my same damn job at the same damn hospital. I'm unfit for the real world. I'm not like you, Cuddy. I can't adapt. I can't handle any sort of change."

"I didn't choose to change my life," Cuddy said, pointedly.

"No," House said. "But you did what was best for yourself and your child. Some may have seen it as running away, but I saw it as the exact opposite. I saw it as courageous, Cuddy. You have the strength to do what is necessary. I admire that about you so much. I always have."

She had a sudden urge to reach across the table and give him a hug.

"Finish your steak," she said instead. "You're too skinny."

He looked at her like she was his savior. Then he cut himself a forkful of steak, put it slowly in his mouth and began to chew.

#####

She didn't intend to go back to his place.

And she didn't intend to drink his wine and sit on his couch and listen to him play the piano with her eyes closed, like she used to, when they first began dating. (Every once in a while, she would open her eyes and see him looking at her, from the piano bench.)

And she didn't intend to show him a video of Rachel's L'il Superstars dance performance.

And she didn't intend to feel anything when he said, "I haven't been this happy in three years."

And she didn't intend to start kissing him—her hands on his jaw, her tongue in his mouth. (He was right about the aftershave, by the way. His own natural musk was better. But tonight, the aftershave smelled like a declaration of love.)

She didn't intend to do any of those things. But she couldn't help it.

And he was kissing her and caressing her and he kept saying, "Oh my God" over and over again. Because even though Gregory House didn't believe in God, he did believe in the church of Lisa Cuddy.

She knew that she wanted him: Because he was willing to quit his job to give her peace of mind. Because he used to have screaming nightmares about hurting her when he was in prison. Because he watched that video of Rachel doing clumsy pirouettes and arabesques like it was the goddamned Cirque de Soleil.

She began digging into the skin of his chest and shoulders with her nails and unbuttoning his shirt and biting his neck, and she felt his erection against her thigh and it was an intoxicating turn-on.

And then . . . she remembered that she was wearing a fucking wire.

"Shit!" she said, popping up from the couch.

"What!" he said, startled, staring at her.

"I. . .need to use the bathroom," she said.

He laughed, relieved.

"You know where it is," he said. "Even though I hate to let you out of my sight."

"I'll be right back," she promised.

She went into the bathroom, closed the door, turned on the water, so he wouldn't get suspicious.

She took off her shirt, pulled back her bra and yanked off the wire. It hurt. The imprint of the tape and the wire left a red mark on her skin. She hoped House would be too aroused to ask about it.

She would call the DA tomorrow, tell him to call off the investigation. Tonight, she didn't want to think about Tritter, who had possibly already heard House's confession (and, oh God, the moans she was making as she and House got physical on the couch). All she wanted was to be with House—the man she loved. The man she had never stopped loving.

And then, she looked up and, with a start, realized that House was standing in the bathroom doorway.

"Jesus House. You scared the shit out of me."

"What the hell is that?" he growled.

**To be continued . . .**


	3. Chapter 3

Detective Michael Tritter had set up a little corner in his apartment for listening to the wire.

He missed the good old days of giant reel-to-reel tapes. It was so satisfying to watch the tape unspool along with the suspect's lies. Everything was digital now. Just a tiny metal recorder, with a button to hit play.

He peeled back the plastic on his TV dinner, cracked open a Coors Lite, and hit the button.

The conversation was boring at first—some flirty small talk, then discussion of House's current case, then House pouring his heart out like the lovesick chump that he was.

Finally, they got to the good stuff.

"Did you know Rachel was at my mother's?"

_She was good. So calm. So calculating._

"Cuddy, I told you. I was stoned out of my skull that night. I didn't know my own first name. . ."

_Bingo! Nailed you, you cocksucker. Enjoy your evening, Dr. House. Because it's going to be one of your last nights as a free man for a long while_.

Tritter took a big, victorious swig of his beer. He wasn't sure why Lisa was still even talking to the guy. She should just collect her shit and get the hell out of that restaurant.

But she stayed. And they talked—more boring stuff, this time with _feelings_. He wished there was a way to fast-forward a live recording.

And then she—wait—was she going back to House's apartment?

"No!" he said outloud.

This was risky and completely unnecessary. She already had what she needed. But maybe she wanted more? Maybe she sensed House was in a confessional mood and might implicate himself further?

At House's place, there was the clink of glasses, then some nice jazzy piano music, seduction stuff—Tritter made a note that needed to find out what that CD was—then talk of Rachel and her ballet recital.

"She's the only one who knows the steps," House said, sounding strangely proud, like it was his kid or something.

Then this exchange:

"I haven't been this happy in three years."

"House, don't. . ."

"I can't help it. I feel like I'm in a dream right now."

"I do, too."

"Cuddy, I just love you so much. . ."

And then. . ._what the hell_? The distinct sound of kissing and then these little, sexy moans Lisa was making.

What was she doing? Was she still really into this guy? Or, knowing that he was listening in, was she trying to turn him on? Was it some sort of game she was playing to get him, Michael Tritter, all hot and bothered? Because it was working. He closed his eyes, pictured that tight little body of hers, naked.

"Oh my God," House was saying.

Tritter wished he could turn down the volume on House's voice. He wanted to imagine that _he_ was the one getting Lisa to make those sounds.

And then she said, "Oh shit!"

He heard her footstep as she ran to the bathroom, and some crunching sounds as she yanked off the wire and then the tape went dead.

Tritter stared at his tape player dumbly.

Was she afraid House would find the wire? Was she in danger? Or . . .the thought was too disturbing to contemplate: Had she changed her mind about wanting to send House to jail? Is that why she ripped off the wire? Was she no longer his ally against House?

_No way_, he tried to assure himself. _She hates him as much as you do. She's just a really good actress._

#####

Cuddy's heart was doing flip-flops in her chest.

"What is that?" House repeated.

Not five minutes ago, he was worshipping at her body like an altar. Now he was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his face contorted in a mixture of anger, pain, and confusion.

"It's a wire," she said, lamely.

"I can see that, Cuddy," he said. "The question is: What are you doing with it?"

She considered a lie—she had come up with a few just in case he had caught her: That she had just found the wire in her purse, an old remnant from the days when she had dated Lucas. That it was a new dictation tool she was trying out for use at work.  
But the stories sounded feeble, unbelievable. Besides, he deserved the truth.

"I've been recording our conversations," she admitted.

He grit his teeth and gave a hard swallow.

"Why?"

"Because I've been . . .working with the DA." _And your arch nemesis Tritter_, she couldn't bring herself to say.

"To what end?" he said, stiffly. It was clearly taking great effort to keep his voice even and calm.

"To prove that you lied to the parole board about Rachel and to. . . send you back to jail."

His eyes widened and his mouth hung open and he just stared at her—in shock.

"But I made a mistake!" she said, with some urgency. "I realized tonight that it was a horrible mistake!"

"So this whole time, you've been. . . recording me?" His voice sounded pathetic, almost childlike, as he tried to grasp what she was saying.

"Yes, but. . ."

"So none of this was real?"

"No. It started out . . . not real. But something changed. . . And what changed is, I realized that I still. . ."

"I'm a fool," he said, to himself. He was no longer looking at her. His eyes were now fixed on some spot beyond her, on the bathroom wall. "I'm an idiot. I wanted to believe so badly. . ." And then he laughed, a sick, sort of queasy laugh—the laugh of a man who hated himself. "I should've known."

"House," she said, daring to step toward him. "You're not an idiot. I am. I thought I could turn off my feelings for you like some sort of . . . faucet. I thought I could stop loving you . . .But I can't."

"Get out," he said, still not raising his voice. Still not looking at her.

"House, let's talk. I can explain."

"Get OUT," he said, gritting his teeth, his voice a bit louder this time.

"I can fix this. I'll go to the DA. I know I can make this go away."

"GET OUT!" he screamed.

His voice was so loud, the bathroom shook.

"House please," she said, beginning to cry.

Finally, he turned to her, unmoved by her tears.

"You need to get away from me, Cuddy. Right now. I'm a sick, violent man. Right? Isn't that what you think of me? That I'm a killer? A bad man? A man who needs to be behind bars?"

"No, House. . .I don't think that."

She went to touch his hand, but his hand jerked away so violently, it almost caused her to fall back.

"Get out," he repeated. The eerie calm was back in his voice. "Get the fuck out of my house and out of my life, Lisa Cuddy."

She realized there was no talking to him, no reasoning with him, no way she could possibly ever explain herself.

They were standing in the same small room but she had never felt like House was farther away.

"I'm going to fix this," she repeated.

And she left the bathroom as his legs gave out and he slid slowly to the tiled floor.

#####

It was past midnight, but she called Wilson from the car.

"Cuddy?" he said groggily.

His voice was thick with sleep.

"I need you to go over to House's place, now."

"What for? Is he okay? What happened?" He was alert now—it was amazing how quickly a person could wake up when there was a perceived emergency.

"Wilson, I can't explain. I just need you to do this for me. I need you get in your car and drive to House's place and make sure he doesn't do something stupid."

"Okay. . ." Wilson said. She could hear that he had already gotten out of bed, was probably fumbling for his clothing in the dark.

"Thank you," she sighed.  
#######

"I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice," Cuddy said, sitting across from DA Oldham, crossing her legs, and smoothing her skirt.

"No problem," he said. "What's on your mind?"  
"I want to call off the investigation on Dr. House."

He gave her a curious look.

"You want to call off the investigation that _you_ initiated?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Because I realized that justice has already been served and it's time for everyone to move on with their lives."

"The DA's office is not some sort of plaything that you can take out of the toy chest when it suits you, Dr. Cuddy."

"I'm aware of that fact."

"If we close the investigation now, we won't be reopening it."

"That's what I want," she said. "I just want to put this whole thing behind me."

"You're sure?" he said.

"I'm positive."

"Okay, Dr. Cuddy. If that's what you want. The case is officially closed."

"Thank you."

And she heaved a heavy sigh of relief.

She got in her car and headed straight to the hospital.

She couldn't wait to tell House.

He would still be mad, of course, but this would be her first step toward redemption.

#####

The team was eyeing House warily. He was obviously very hungover and in a piss-poor mood. He'd been downright cheerful these past two weeks, when he thought that he and Cuddy were reconciling. Now he seemed edgy, restless, a bit like a caged animal.

In moments like this, he was liable to blow at any moment. In moments like this, he needed to come with a label: Warning: Dangerous When Provoked.

They were saved—or so they thought—by a figure that appeared in the doorway: But it wasn't Cuddy this time. It was a towering man, with immense shoulders, wearing 70s-style cop sunglasses. He was noisily chewing gum.

House saw him, made a face.

"What? Did you take a wrong turn in the year 2006?"

"Good to see you, Dr. House," Tritter said.

"_Bad_ to see you, Tritter," House said. "I think you're in the wrong part of the hospital. The _anal leakage_ department is on the third floor."

"Still a funny guy, I see, Dr. House."

"Still a giant a block of talking wood, I see, Tritter."

"I'm sure they loved all your jokes in prison."

House folded his arms. He still hadn't made the connection.

"What's the matter Tritter? You're upset that I didn't send Christmas cards? When will you finally accept it: I'm just not that into you."

Tritter smirked, in a knowing sort of way.

"You have no idea, do you?"

"No idea of what?"

"I have a warrant here for your arrest."

And he pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket.

The team gaped at him, then turned back to House.

"What the fuck for?" House said, scanning the warrant.  
"For lying to a parole board. We've got all the evidence we need, courtesy of Dr. Lisa Cuddy."

Now House turned white.

"You were working with. . .her?" he choked out.

"She came to me," Tritter said. Which wasn't exactly true. But such a satisfying lie.

House's shoulders slumped. He suddenly seemed very small next to the giant man.

"Put your hands behind your back," Tritter said, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

"Park, call Foreman," Chase said, standing up. Then he turned to Tritter: "Are handcuffs really necessary?"

"No," Tritter said. "But they're so much fun."

He slapped the cuffs on House and read him his Miranda rights.

Then he paraded the hospital's world-famous diagnostician through the hallways in handcuffs on his way to jail.

######

The minute Cuddy arrived at PPTH, she could tell that something big had happened. The hospital always had a certain buzz when major gossip had gone down.

(She remembered the day she and House had announced they were dating, when he had "told everyone repeatedly." From the ground floor morgue to the top floor research labs—everyone had known, seemingly in an instant. "Finally!" a few nurses had joked. "I thought they'd been together for years," she'd overhead a lab tech say.)

Whatever today's gossip was, she'd find out about that later. She practically ran to House's office to tell him her good news.

But he wasn't there. Instead, Chase, Foreman, Taub and the two new ones were huddled together, deep in conversation, looking concerned.

"Where's House?" she said, interrupting them.

"You haven't heard?" Foreman asked.

"No. . . I sensed the PPTH rumor mill in full effect, but I didn't ask. Is it about House?"

"Remember that cop Tritter? The one who was always on House's ass?"

Cuddy felt her neck turn red.

"Yes," she said. "What about him?"  
"About 20 minutes ago, he came in here and arrested House," Foreman said.

"He said it had something to do with you," Chase added.

"No!" Cuddy said. "There's been some sort of mistake!"

And she flew out the door before they could ask her what the hell was going on.

In her car, still out of breath, she called DA Oldham.

"Detective Tritter just arrested House," she barked.

"I know," he said, patiently.

"You told me the case was closed. You told me House wasn't going to be arrested."

"And you neglected to tell me that House admitted he had no idea if your daughter was home that day, _on tape_."

'That's immaterial. I told you. I don't want to pursue this anymore."

"It's too late," Oldham said. "Tritter pulled an end-around. He went to the assistant DA. It's out of my hands now. House broke the law and he's going back to jail."

"But Tritter is insane!" Cuddy screamed. "This is personal to him! He's got a vendetta. If we can prove that he was acting out of revenge, can we get the charges dropped?"

"Not when we have concrete evidence of Dr. House's wrongdoing."

"But I didn't mean to. . .It was a mistake. . .I. . ."

"I hate to point this out, Dr. Cuddy," Oldham interrupted. "But _you_ were the one who opened this investigation._ You_ were the one wearing a wire. And _you_ are the real reason Dr. House is going back to jail."

######

House sat in the back of Tritter's cop car, his hands in cuffs, looking at the floor. The carpeting hadn't been vacuumed in months. It was filled with lint and cigarette buds. The bullet-proof glass between himself and Tritter was grimy and smudged.

Tritter eyed him in the rear-view mirror, snapping his gum.

"What, no smart comments now?" he said gleefully.

House said nothing.

"You are something else," Tritter said. "You really thought she had forgiven you, didn't you? You really thought she was going to take you back?" He snorted. "You're pathetic," he said.

House continued to look at his feet. He blinked.

"I loved listening to that tape," Tritter said. "Laughing at it. '_I can't get over how beautiful you look_.'" He was doing an approximation of House's voice—but as a dopy, lovestruck sap. "'_I haven't been this happy in three years._'" He laughed. "And then there was my favorite: _Oh_. _My_. _God_.' That was the best part. That was when I laughed the hardest. You thought all your dreams were coming true, didn't you pal?"

He glanced through the mirror, but House wasn't giving him the satisfaction of any sort of reaction.

"You're going to need to pray to God now, buddy. Not that it will do you any good. I caught you red-handed. Lying to a parole board comes with a six month minimum sentence. Maybe longer."

Once again, he looked at House. Again House was motionless, almost catatonic.

"Still got nothing, huh? No fight left in you? I thought you were made of tougher stuff, House. You're even weaker than I thought."

They had arrived at the jail. Tritter got out, opened the backseat door, roughly grabbed House by the arm and yanked him out of the car. House's head banged against the top of the doorframe.

"Oops," Tritter said. "I forgot to tell you to duck."

#####

"There's a woman here to see you."

Tritter had just gotten back from central booking. He was in a supremely good mood. He was actually whistling.

He looked over at his work station.

There was Lisa Cuddy, sitting in the industrial wooden chair across from his desk, looking gorgeous in a tight short-sleeved sweater and skirt, classing up the joint with her mere presence.

"There's my partner in fighting crime," he said with a smile, sitting down.

"I'm not your partner in anything," she hissed.

"Could've fooled me," Tritter said. "I think together, we took down Dr. House pretty successfully."

"I didn't want to go through with it and you know it," she said.

He shrugged.

"Oh, I knew that, huh?"

"You heard the tape. You knew that I still loved him."

"I heard your excellent undercover work. And some. . .other sounds, too."

He smirked at her.

"If you didn't know that I had changed my mind, why did you go behind Oldham's back to the assistant DA?" she demanded.

He gave a tiny shrug.

"_Maybe_ Oldham told me that you didn't want to pursue the case anymore," he admitted. "But the assistant DA can authorize arrest warrants just as easily."

"You bastard."

"We should be celebrating, Dr. Cuddy. A very bad man is going to be behind bars."

"You're the bad man. A petty, small, vindictive coward."

"Awww, you're hurting my feelings, Dr. Cuddy." Then he grinned. "So I guess this means dinner tonight is out of the question?"

"Fuck you," she said.

"Easy there, gorgeous. I'm still a police officer."

"You're the one who should be behind bars. You're a bully and a creep."

"Why so angry Dr. Cuddy? You must be sexually frustrated after last night," Tritter said. "Let me show you what it's like to be with a real man."

"I think you're threatened by House," she said, looking at him. "I think you're threatened by successful, virile men.

"He didn't seem that virile a few hours ago, when he was crying in the back of my cop car," Tritter said.

"I think you're sexually impotent," she said, not breaking her stare. "I think you have a tiny little penis and you can't get it up and that's why you have to obsess on powerful men like House."

He smiled at her. But it was a dark smile—filled with malevolence.

"Watch it. . .you're treading on dangerous ground here."

A few the other cops were now watching this scene. It seemed volatile.

"You make me sick," Cuddy said.

And then Lisa Cuddy did something she had never done in her entire life—she spat on another human being.

Tritter stared at her, the grin still frozen on his face. The saliva dripped down his cheek. He wiped it off his face with his sleeve.

Then, in one quick move, he made his way to the other side of the desk, roughly grabbed Cuddy from behind, allowing himself the tiniest "accidental" fondle of her ass as he did so, and slapped a pair of handcuffs on her.

"Congratulations, Dr. Cuddy," he said. "You just earned yourself a night in a holding cell."

#####


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for all your kind reviews, guys. Your enthusiasm for this story basically made my week!**

Lisa Cuddy was trying to make herself invisible.

She was sitting at the far edge of a wooden bench in the Trenton PD holding cell, her knees pressed together, her hands in her lap. She was conscious of the fact she was barefoot and that the floor was very sticky. She was conscious of the other women in the cell—two strung-out looking blondes; another, larger woman with a tattoo of a woman's face on her neck; a fourth woman that kept moaning that somebody had taken away her babies; and another woman, with scratch marks on her arms and face, fast asleep on one of the two narrow cots.

The cell was filthy and smelled of urine and body odor.

Lisa Cuddy had never been to jail before.

She had never even been to detention.

At first, she thought Tritter was bluffing. Even as he bent her over the desk and roughly strapped on the metals cuffs—she thought he was flexing his muscle a bit, teaching her a lesson.

But then he began reading her Miranda rights and she realized it was real and she started to feel sick. She didn't want to appear weak or scared in front of him—but that was the thing about bullies with actual power. They usually won.

"You're arresting me? On what charges?" she managed to stammer.

"I could charge you for assaulting a police officer," he said. "But since I'm such a nice guy, we'll call it 'Disobeying an order.' You'll get off with a fine—_after _you spend in the night in Trenton's finest motel."

He pushed her toward the door.

"Let's go, doctor," he said.

An attractive female officer, early 30s, with kind eyes, had been observing the whole scene. Now she stood up.

"I'll take her down, Tritter," she said. "I'm going that way."

"She's my perp," Tritter said. "And a close, personal friend, too. I got this."

It was clear, once they got down to booking, why he was so keen on taking Cuddy personally. The arresting cop had to pat the perp down before handing her over to the booking officer.

He pat Cuddy down slowly, his hands lingering, splayed out over her breasts.

"She's clean," he said, with a satisfied smirk. "She's all yours Martha."

Martha was the one who took Cuddy's wallet and cell phone and shoes.

When she took the shoes, she looked at them disdainfully and said, "These could probably feed my family for a month."  
She wasn't smiling.

Cuddy was fingerprinted and a mug shot was taken.

"You can make your phone call now," Martha said.

"Phone call?" Cuddy said. "To whom?"

"I don't know, honey. Your husband, your girlfriend, your pimp. Whoever's going to post bail for you. You get a minute."

In some sort of alternative universe, House would've been the perfect person to call—resourceful, non-judgmental, the kind of guy who knew how to find a bail bondsman in the middle of the night.

But of course, House was currently sitting in a cell of his own, several miles away, in the New Jersey Department of Corrections.

Calling Arlene or Julia was equally out of the question.

So she called her most reliable friend—Dr. James Wilson.

"How could you Cuddy?" he said into the phone. (By now, he knew the whole story: About Cuddy, the wire, House's arrest, even Tritter.) His voice was thick with disappointment.

"Wilson I need a huge favor," she said.

"I shouldn't even be talking to you," he said. "I'm not sure I _am_ talking to you. What you did to House was unforgivable."

"I know it was, but right now I . . ."

Suddenly, in the background, a fight broke out between two men who had been waiting for an officer. They were both screaming and cursing at the top of their lungs.

"Where are you?" Wilson said, finally realizing that this phone call was highly irregular.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. I'm at the Trenton Police Department."

"You can't visit House yet. And besides, he's at the state pen."

"I know that. . ._ I'm_ the one who has been arrested."

Wilson made a sound—a cross between a gasp and a squeak—and then there was a stunned silence.

"_You_ were arrested?"

"Twenty seconds," Martha said, tapping on her watch.

"Wilson. I gotta go in 20 seconds. I got arrested for. . . disobeying an officer and I need you to post my bail. Can you do that?"

"Yes," he said cautiously.

"And I need you to call my mother and tell her that I had a little too much to drink and I'm spending the night with a friend, okay?"

"Okay," he repeated mechanically. He still seemed to be in a bit of shock.

"Thanks Wilson. I owe you, big time. I'll tell you everything tomorrow."

She hung up just as the line went dead.

And now here she was, sitting in this cell, wanting to cry, wanting to die, just hoping to make it through the night.

She had to pee, but there was no way she was going to use that toilet. It looked diseased. And there was no door, only a flimsy, see-through curtain.

For a brief moment, her mind flashed to House: She had been in jail for only a few hours and she was already cold, dirty, and terrified. She couldn't imagine what it had been like for him. What it was like for him _now_, because of her.

The large woman with the neck tattoo must've noticed Cuddy's attempts at being invisible.

"BOO!" she said loudly, sneaking up behind her.

Cuddy jumped half a foot off the bench and the woman laughed.

"Don't be scared," she said. "I'm not going to bite."

Cuddy gulped, said nothing.

"What are you in here for, princess?" the large lady said. "Cause you're not drunk and you're not a hooker—unless you are the most high-class hooker I've ever laid eyes on."

Now all the other women in the cell were craning their necks, listening in with curiosity.

"I spat on a police officer," Cuddy whispered meekly.

"You what?" one of the strung out blonde girls said.

"I spat on a police officer," Cuddy repeated, a little louder this time.

"What the hell is that?"

"Spat," the big lady barked. "It's fancy talk for spit." Then she broke into a huge grin: "You spit on a cop, princess?"

Cuddy nodded.

"I've always wanted to do that," the big woman said, and she slapped Cuddy's back approvingly.

####

Somehow, Cuddy managed to fall asleep. She woke up to the sound of her name being called.

Her head was resting on the large woman's shoulder.

She straightened herself quickly, rubbed her neck. Her new friend shifted a bit, belched in her sleep, but didn't wake up.

"Lisa Cuddy, you've made bail," a female officer was saying.

She opened the cell and let Cuddy out.

Wilson was standing in the waiting room, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, pacing anxiously. He watched as they gave Cuddy back her belongings, then he followed her outside.

Cuddy's car had been impounded. ("We don't run a valet service, lady," one of the cops had told her.) Wilson would have to drive her home.

"You okay?" he said, tenderly.

"Yeah," she nodded, trying to convince herself.

"You look like shit," he said, with a small smile. "And you smell even worse."

"Gee thanks, " Cuddy said, continuing to rub her neck, which was stiff. "I need a shower, a bed, a massage, and a toilet, not necessarily in that order."

"Tell me everything," Wilson said, as they pulled out of the parking lot.

"Where to begin?" Cuddy said.

"Start with how you and House managed to get arrested on the same day," Wilson said.

"I . . . spit on Tritter," Cuddy said.

Wilson actually laughed.

"You _what?_"

"I spit on Tritter."

"I thought Tritter was your new best friend," Wilson said, the tiniest bit of contempt in his voice.

"Partnering with Tritter was a horrible mistake," Cuddy said. "I realize that now."

Then she put her head in her hands.

"This whole thing was a horrible mistake," she said. "I tried to call it off, but it was too late. The wheels were set in motion. Tritter wasn't motivated by justice. He was motivated by revenge."

"So you spit on him?"

"Basically."

"House would be proud," Wilson said, chuckling.

And then they both realized what an absurd thing that was to say.

"House is never going to speak to me ever again," Cuddy said.

"Can you blame him?" Wilson said.

"No," Cuddy said. "Actually, I can't."

#####

She called the DA, again. But he said it was out of his hands.

So she called the mayor's office and the head of city council and a circuit court judge she had met at a PPTH party once.

She wrote a letter to the Governor of New Jersey.

She wrote another letter to a lawyer in Michigan who specialized in cases of abuse of authority.

She wrote to the ACLU and the Human Rights League.

All dead ends.

But she wasn't going to give up. She would write a letter a day, all the way up to the President of the United States, if she had to, to try to get House out of jail.

Then, two weeks later, she contacted the New Jersey State Penitentiary about getting on the visitor list to see him.

"He doesn't want to see you," they told her.

She figured he couldn't refuse her if she showed up in person. So she got into her car and drove 3 hours to the prison.

"You're not on the visitor list," the prison guard said. He was a youngish guy, blond, with a buzz cut. His hair was so light, you could see through to his skull.

"Can we make an exception?" Cuddy said, batting her eyelashes at him. "I drove all the way from Westchester."

The guard smiled conspiratorially at her.

"Hold on."

He made a phone call.

"There's a Dr. Lisa Cuddy here to see Inmate Number 697? Uh yeah. . .Uh huh. . .You sure? . . .Okay."

He looked up, pursed his lips.

"I'm sorry but the inmate doesn't want to see you," he said, sounding shocked.

"Does he know that I'm here?" she said, trying to blink back a tear. "In person?"

"They told him. He said no."

So she drove back to Westchester.

######

A few days later, she got a phone call.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy?" a woman said. "I'm Officer Carla Robinson."

"I'm not giving to the Police Auxiliary League this year," Cuddy said, with a dry laugh. "Hasn't been a banner year for me and the police."

"It's not that," Carla said hastily. "I work with Detective Michael Tritter."

At the sound of his name, Cuddy's blood ran cold.

"I don't want to hear that man's name ever again for the rest of my life," she said, starting to hang up.

"No! Wait!" Carla interjected. "Hear me out. I think we're on the same side here."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes.

"I'm listening," she said.

"A few of us here on the force think Detective Tritter is bad for law enforcement and even worse for the state of New Jersey. We're filing an official complaint against him to Internal Affairs for abuse of power and sexual harassment of suspects and, uh, fellow officers."

The way she paused before saying fellow officers, Cuddy had a hunch she was no stranger to Tritter's unwanted advances.

"I was in the station the night Tritter arrested you," Carla said. Cuddy suddenly had a flash to the pretty officer with the kind eyes. "I saw the way he . . .handled you. It seemed like a pretty good representation of what we're talking about."

"It was," Cuddy agreed. She still remembered that creep's hands on her ass—and the ways his thumb had purposefully brushed against her nipple as he pat her down.

"We feel that having a powerful woman like yourself—a pillar of the community—on our side would be very useful. And we were wondering if you'd be willing to write a letter of complaint and possibly even testify at an Internal Affairs hearing if necessary."

"I would love to," Cuddy said.

#######

Wilson went to visit House in prison. That night, when he got home, he called Cuddy, at her request.

"How is he?" she said anxiously. She was sitting in bed, with her knees pulled up to her chest, a blanket over her shoulders.

"He's. . . bad, Cuddy," Wilson admitted.

Her heart began thumping.

"Bad how?"

"He got the crap beaten out of him on Day 2—apparently those Neo-Nazis are not so quick to forgive and forget. They broke his arm and cracked some of his ribs. So they had to put him in solitary confinement. For his own protection."

"For how long?" she said. The thought of House sitting alone, for days on end, in a small cell, with no human interaction, was almost too much to bear.

"They don't know," Wilson said. "They said for as long as it takes."

"How did he seem, though? Besides the physical wounds, I mean."

"He seemed. . .subdued. Out of it a bit. Not really himself."

Cuddy sighed.

"Did you at least give him my message?" she said.

She had asked Wilson to tell House how sorry she was, how worried.

"Yeah," he said.

"And?"

"And. . . he didn't say much. I told you, he was barely communicative."

She wrapped herself more tightly in the blanket.

"Shit Wilson. I've ruined him," she said.

"He'll be okay," Wilson said, not sounding totally convinced. "He got through this once. He can do it again."

"It's different this time, and we both know it," Cuddy said.

_It's different because this time, I betrayed him._

"It's just six months," Wilson said.

"Six months alone in a cell. He'll go mad!"

"Don't do this to yourself Cuddy. You'll end up going crazy yourself."

She closed her eyes.

"I don't know what to do, Wilson. He won't see me. I need to talk to him, apologize, tell him how I feel."

"Then write him a letter."

"He'll just rip it up."

"Maybe," Wilson said. "Maybe he'll rip it up. Or maybe he'll read it."

######

She dreamt that House was in a tiny, narrow cell and the walls were closing in on him. The walls kept getting closer and closer. He wedged his cane between the walls to keep them from moving, and it worked for a few minutes, but then the cane snapped in two and the walls kept closing in, inexorably, until he couldn't breath, until he his bones were getting crushed, until the walls were smothering him.

She woke up to the sound of her own voice, screaming.

######

_Dear House-_

_Please don't rip up this letter._

_I realize that no apology is adequate and that no explanation can possibly undo the terrible things I've done._

_But please at least let me least try. _

_Yes, I wore the wire. And yes, I worked with the DA. _

_After the crash, I was so angry at you. I turned you into a monster in my mind. How could I not? You ruined my life. You gave my little girl nightmares._

_And then, when I found out that you got out of jail and you were back at PPTH, just living your old life, like nothing had happened, I admit it. I kind of . . .snapped._

_The injustice of it all, it enraged me. _

_So I contacted the DA. I never knew Tritter was going to be there. He was just this unfortunate part of the arrangement. And I thought. . .sure, he's a strange bedfellow. But right now, we were on the same side. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. . . that sort of thing._

_But then, of course, I started to spend time with you. And I realized that everything I thought I knew was wrong._

_You weren't triumphant or smug or gloating. _

_You were broken, just like I was. And you felt guilt and remorse. And you had nightmares about hurting Rachel. And you were still in love with me. _

_Everything I said to you in Princeton, I really felt. Every emotion was genuine. Every word was true. And yes, I really did want to have sex with you that night. I wanted to be as close to you as humanly possible. Because I still love you, House. I managed to convince myself that I didn't. But it was a lie._

_But then you discovered the wire and it all went to hell. _

_Tritter had heard the tape and he knew I was trying to withdraw the charges, so he went behind my back to the assistant DA and there was nothing I could do about it. What was done was done. And here we are. _

_I know you're in jail because of me. And I know they put you in solitary. And I swear House, there are some days I can hardly live with myself. _

_You said you had nightmares about hurting Rachel. That you woke up screaming. Now I'm the one with nightmares. I'm the one who wakes up screaming. _

_So, if nothing else, I hope this letter at least gives you a little bit of satisfaction. _

_Always, _

_Cuddy_

#######

Five months later, Cuddy was home paying her bills and doing some laundry and Rachel was at her friend Willow's house for a playdate, when she heard the distinct sound of a motorcyle sputtering to a stop and then a knock at the door.

She blew a stray hair off her forehead, peered through the peephole. Then she blinked hard and looked again. But it was really him.

She opened the door.

"I have no weapons," House said, holding out his palms.

He was wearing a teal blue tee-shirt, untucked, and a pair of dark jeans.

He looked skinny, but not unhealthy. Quite fit and lean, actually. His hair was short and poky. It peaked into a small point at the top.

"House!" she said. "What are you doing here?"

She wasn't surprised to see him out of jail. Wilson told her he had been released, last week. But she was positively stunned to see him on her doorstep.

"I was just in the neighborhood," he cracked.

"How are you even here? In Westchester? Don't you have to wear one of those ankle monitor thingies?"

"I figured out a way to remove the 'ankle monitor thingie,'" he said.

"You're kidding!"

"Yes, I'm kidding," he said. Then he said: "I guess one of those hundreds of letters you wrote stuck. The judge said I had a loyal—if slightly annoying—advocate and that I was free to leave the state."

"Wow," Cuddy said. "I never got a response. I was beginning to think my letters were going straight to a landfill in Trenton."

"No. They were received," House said, with a tiny smile. "You can apparently be quite convincing when you put your mind to it."

She still wasn't sure why he was here—why he was standing in her doorway, smiling at her. But she realized he was being rude.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked.

"Actually," he said, almost sheepishly. "Do you have a deck? I'm partial to open spaces these days."

Of course, she thought, with a tiny chill. He'd been in solitary.

"Yeah," she said. "We can go out back."

So they traipsed through her house and sat on her backyard deck, next to the grill and Rachel's scooter and a few pink soccer balls.

Cuddy made lemonade.

"Did you hear about Tritter?" she said.

"No," House said. "Please tell me he was the victim of some horrific accident and that he is a dying a slow and unmercifully painful death."

"No, but he got kicked off the force," she said. "For 'conduct unbecoming of a police officer'. He's working as a mall cop in Jersey City now."

And then she gave a slightly proud smile.

"I testified against him."

"Was this before or after you spit on him?" House said.

"You know about that, huh?" she said, slightly chagrined.

"Know about it? Are you kidding? One of the first things I did when I got out of jail was find this."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, showed it to her—Cuddy's mugshot.

"Holy shit!" she said.

"Look how angry you are," House said, looking at the mugshot fondly.

"That's not anger, that's fear," Cuddy said.

"You look hot," he said, with a shrug. And he folded the paper and put it back in his pocket.

"House. . ." she said, looking at him searchingly. "I need to know. . . what are you doing here? The last I checked, you wouldn't see me, you weren't even talking to me."

"I got your letter," he said.

"That letter didn't say anything you didn't already know."

"No. But it got me thinking."

"Thinking what?"

"That I should thank you," he said.

"_Thank_ me?"

"Yes." And then cleared his throat, as if about to give a speech: "You see Cuddy, once I drove a car through your house, the possibility of us getting back to normal was pretty much shot. I mean, even if we tried. . .it would always be this _thing _hanging over us. This imbalance: 'Oh hey, there's House. He ran a car through my dining room, but he's a really great guy once you get to know him!'"

House laughed a bit at his own joke. Then he swallowed.

"But now. _Now._ You sent me to jail for six months. You wore a fucking _wire_. You conspired with evil forces against me . . . That's some heavy shit. . . And apparently, you feel so sick about what you did—you have nightmares."

He eyed her.

"Welcome to the club," he said.

"What are you saying, House?"

"I'm saying a bit of balance has been restored in our relationship. Not total balance, mind you. Driving a car through your house still trumps the whole Double Agent Cuddy thing." He made a weight with his hands, to show the near balance. "But it's close."

He looked at her, to see if she was still following him. She was.

"It's close enough that maybe we can think about. . . being together again. But that maybe, I dunno, you'd let me be your boyfriend again."

It was like Cuddy had been holding her breath for 6 months and she could suddenly exhale.

Quite unexpectedly, she burst into tears.

He stood up quickly, was at her side, giving her a hug.

"You silly girl," he said. "Don't cry, Cuddy. Don't cry."

"You forgive me?" she snifffed.

"Of course I do," he said. He began to kiss her eyelid, her cheek. Then he found her mouth.

"And you want to be with me?"

"Yes," he said. He was kissing her harder now, his tongue in her mouth and his hands beginning to roam her body. He clearly didn't want to talk anymore, but she had to be sure.

"And you still love me?" she said. She was pressed against his torso and it felt so good to be in his arms again, with his mouth against hers, his hands hungrily exploring her. It felt like home.

"Of course I still love you," he whispered. "Of course. Sometimes I wish I didn't. But I can't help it."

THE END


End file.
